Page 18 of Pucked In Vegas (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t)

Epilogue

Cassie

Six Months Later

The setting sun paints Iron Ridge in amber and gold as we cross the town limits. I've got my heels kicked off, feet up on Jackson's dashboard, scrolling through congratulatory texts about my latest client win.

"And then when the bride's father said he wanted elephants for the ceremony, I thought Natasha was going to faint," I laugh, still riding the high of landing Hawthorne Events ' biggest client yet—a Hollywood power couple with a private island and an unlimited budget.

"But I just smiled and said, 'We can absolutely make that happen, but have you considered trained dolphins instead? '"

Jackson chuckles, one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on my thigh. "And that's why you're the best in the business, baby."

"The dolphins are much more environmentally friendly," I add. "Plus, way more Instagram-worthy."

"Mmm-hmm." His fingers inch higher beneath my skirt, the hum of the Range Rover groaning around us.

I try to ignore the delicious shiver his touch sends through me.

"Are you even listening to me talk about work, or are you just thinking about getting me naked again?"

"Both." He flashes that dimpled grin that still makes my stomach flip, even after six months of marriage. "I'm excellent at multitasking."

"That's actually true," I concede, remembering exactly how good his 'multitasking' skills are.

My phone buzzes again. I groan when I see the sender.

"Let me guess," Jackson says, glancing over. "Big Mike with another job offer?"

"How'd you know?" I open the email and clear my throat for my dramatic reading voice. "' Cassandra, the pre-season events need your expertise. The team misses your energy. Just think of the legacy, sweetheart .'"

Jackson snorts. "If he says 'legacy' one more time, I'm reporting him To Coach Brody for emotional blackmail."

"Right? Like I haven't heard that word five hundred times since we moved back." I lock my phone and toss it into my purse. "He acts like I'm betraying the family business by running my own company instead of working for the Icehawks."

"While conveniently forgetting that you're building your own legacy," Jackson adds, reaching for my hand and bringing it to his lips. "One that doesn't revolve around hockey."

"Well, not entirely," I correct, looking pointedly at him in his Icehawks tracksuit. "I did marry the star rookie."

"Best decision you ever made."

He kisses my palm, then each fingertip, his eyes flicking between me and the road.

"Second best," I tease. "Best was telling my dad I'd plan your draft night. Otherwise, I might never have seen you again after Vegas."

"Fate," Jackson says with absolute certainty. "We would've found each other somehow."

The conviction in his voice makes my heart swell. For a guy who grew up with nothing, Jackson has an unshakable faith in us that still surprises me.

The car slows at a red light, and Jackson leans over to kiss me properly, his tongue teasing mine. His hand slides higher up my thigh, fingers brushing against the lace edge of my underwear.

"Jackson," I gasp against his mouth. "We're in the middle of town."

"So?" His teeth graze my bottom lip. "It's Iron Ridge. The place might be beautiful, but at this time of night? There's not a soul to see."

I swat his hand away, laughing. "Even still, I'm not giving Clara at Summit Café a free show."

I never thought I'd fall in love with Iron Ridge again. This town that once felt like a cage now feels like... home.

The Ridgeview Tavern was glowing warm when we drove past, its windows fogged with laughter and hockey talk.

Every Friday night, the team piles in there after practice.

Jackson's teammates slowly becoming our makeshift family.

Logan Kane buys everyone's first round. Connor Walsh challenges rookies to darts and never loses.

Blake's always there, too, chatting with Eli Thompson, the town's hockey legend about his hockey program.

"Slow down," I tell Jackson, pointing at Chapter and Grind, the local bookstore. "Look. Emma put up new curtains."

He obediently eases off the gas and stops right out the front. "Nice. Blue matches the mountains."

"She's hosting our book club there next week." I can't help smiling at the thought. "Can you believe I'm in a book club now? With hockey wives?!"

Jackson squeezes my hand. "Can you believe I'm married to Big Mike's daughter who once claimed to hate everything about this place?"

"I never hated everything," I correct him. "I just hated being defined by it."

And that's the difference now.

Iron Ridge isn't just "hockey town" to me anymore.

It's where Mrs. Abernathy leaves fresh flowers on our porch when Jackson scores.

It's where the high school coach asks me to judge the winter formal decorations because "you've got that fancy event planner eye.

" It's the place where I can wear sweatpants to the grocery store and everyone still calls me "Cassie" not "Ms. Hawthorne. "

Another set of lights turn green, but instead of continuing toward our apartment, Jackson makes a sudden left turn.

"Where are we going?" I straighten in my seat. "I thought you were starving."

"I am." His voice drops an octave, eyes darkening with intent. "Just not for food."

I recognize our route through the foggy windows and the town's iconic hockey stadium comes into view.

"The arena? Seriously?"

"Figured it's time you saw my favorite room in the whole damn place."

"We've been through the entire arena," I remind him. "Multiple times. I planned three events there last month alone."

I still can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually like being here now. Not because I've suddenly become a hockey fanatic. God knows that ship has sailed. But because Jackson's face lights up every time he steps onto that ice.

When he scores and searches the stands for me, that little wink he gives before his teammates tackle him in celebration.

All of it makes my heart do stupid things.

Icehawk Arena isn't just a hockey stadium anymore. It's where Jackson lives his dream, where I watch him fly across the ice with that determined look I fell in love with in Vegas.

And somehow, against all odds, it's becoming my happy place too.

Jackson pulls into the players' entrance, flashing his ID at the security gate. "You haven't seen this room."

As he parks in his reserved spot— HOLT #87 —I raise an eyebrow. "You've got that look in your eye. This going to involve taking my pants off, isn't it?"

He kills the engine and turns to me with that wolfish grin that still makes my toes curl.

"Obviously."

With a laugh, he leads me through the dimly lit corridors, his fingers laced with mine. My heels dangle from my other hand as I pad barefoot beside him, trying to keep up.

"Are you seriously bringing me to the players' lounge? At ten o'clock on a Thursday?" I whisper, though, as far as I can see, there's no one in the entire arena that can hear us.

"Best time." His voice echoes slightly in the empty hallway. "We're all alone."

"Yeah. Okay. Like we wouldn't be alone at home in our apartment?" I tease, but Jackson just ignores me and keeps moving.

He swipes his keycard, and the door to the players lounge clicks open. Jackson steps aside, letting me enter first.

And. Holy. Shit.

I've seen photos of professional NHL players' lounges before… but nothing, nothing, prepared me for this.

The Icehawks' players private sanctuary sprawls before me.

Exposed wooden beams, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the darkened practice rink, and plush leather furniture in deep forest green.

A massive stone fireplace anchors one wall, while a professional pool table sits under soft pendant lighting.

"Okay. You brought me here to seduce me with... man cave energy?" I laugh, dropping my shoes by the door. "Know your audience, Jax."

"No," he says, crowding me against the gleaming bar. His hands bracket my hips, lifting me onto the cool surface. "I brought you here because you make every part of my life better. Even this one."

His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. His hips start to move and I can't help but claw at his back, drawing him closer, savoring the way his muscles feel beneath my hands.

"Even when I'm exhausted from practice, all I think about is getting home to you."

"Is that so?" I gasp as his hands slide under my skirt.

"You have no idea how many times I've sat on that couch—" he nods toward the plush leather sectional "—thinking about bending you over it."

My laugh turns into a moan when his fingers hook into my underwear, tugging them down my thighs. "Such a romantic."

"For you? Always." He drops to his knees, spreading my legs wider. "Now hold onto the bar, Cassie."

I grip the edge as he pushes my skirt up around my waist. His breath is hot against my inner thigh, and I shiver in anticipation.

"God, I love how wet you get for me," he murmurs, his tongue tracing the edges of my pussy in that way that makes my back arch. "So fucking sweet, baby."

"Don't get cocky," I manage, though my voice breaks when he sucks my clit between his lips.

He looks up, ocean-blue eyes gleaming. "Too late for that."

My leg hooks around his shoulder as he devours me, his tongue relentless against the heat of my core. I'm trembling, one hand tangled in his hair, when he pulls back, lips glistening.

"Couch. Now."

We stumble to the leather sofa, my skirt bunched around my waist, his pants already unzipped. He sits, pulling me onto his lap.

"This is what I think about during those boring team meetings," he confesses as I sink down onto him. "You, taking me like this."

I straddle Jackson, the sight of his hard cock making my nipples tighten painfully. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my flesh with a desperation that matches my own.

I wrap my hand around his length, marveling at the silky heat, the pulse that echoes my own racing heart.